


Tempest in a Tea Cup

by days_of_storm



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drunk John, Drunk Sherlock, First Kiss, Fix-It of Sorts, Friendship/Love, Homecoming, M/M, Pining, Realisations, Regrets, whisky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-14
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-12-29 19:22:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12091728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days_of_storm/pseuds/days_of_storm





	Tempest in a Tea Cup

The alcohol blossomed warmth through his stomach like the cloud of milk that had spread through his tea this morning. But it wasn’t quite the tempest in a tea cup within him. He felt the warmth spread more slowly, growing from his stomach to warm his heart and then his cheeks. 

Sherlock sat across from him at a table that was too large, with conversation surrounding them that was too loud. John felt the distance between them all too distinctly. 

It had been a while since he had had a proper drink. 

He had drunk a lot after Sherlock’s fall – his absence too physical for comfort – too painful to be ignored. The new, empty flat had been too depressing, but after two years, Lestrade had come by again – not for his birthday this time, but because he missed Sherlock, too. He said he feared that his colleagues would start walking out on him if he ever brought up the topic again, so he had given John a ring and dropped by one evening, a bottle of whisky in his arms. 

After a couple of drinks he had remarked that John’s flat looked more than a little like 221B Baker Street had. John had stopped drinking then, remembering that he had been at least tipsy when he had viewed the flat and signed the contract, and properly drunk when he had bought the furniture online, and since then there had been additions to the flat – none of which had been consciously picked out. Back then it had felt very random – any kind of couch would do, any kind of coffee table. 

After Lestrade’s visit and the sinking, jarring feeling that he was right, John had stopped drinking altogether and pursued dating again. 

Now, more than two years later, with Sherlock back in London and his own marriage in shambles, he wondered whether he could suggest moving back in with Sherlock. The flat would still be full with Sherlock’s things anyway, like it always had. Except for his chair, even though that belonged to Sherlock, too – at least in theory. But he felt that after all this time, it was really his own.

He had noticed that whenever he dropped by unannounced these days, the chair was always covered in clothes or files or newspapers – and always quickly cleared before he had even hung up his coat or made his way into the sitting room. He was certain that Sherlock never did that for other visitors. 

But Sherlock was still too far away, his eyes fixed on the table or people behind John, even though John could tell that he would rather have looked at him. Yet, apart from a few annoyed glances, they had avoided each other’s eyes. John wasn’t exactly sure why that was, but he knew that the alcohol now helped him look. 

He took another sip, carefully swallowing around the golden liquid, feeling it burn on his tongue and then spread a cloud of warmth down his throat and through his stomach again. 

It was in that moment that Sherlock finally decided to look at him and suddenly John wasn’t sure whether the warmth in his stomach, his heart and his cheeks was really only originating in the whisky. 

It had been too long since Sherlock had shared his private amusement with him. Too long since they had talked without tip-toeing around each other. The conversation with Mary after Sherlock’s release from the hospital had been the last time. A year had passed since then, and even though his words still hurt him, even now, he missed those moments of honesty. 

But he had been more careful with Sherlock since then, especially after Magnussen and the farewell at the airport. John was still incredibly torn about that moment - he still felt that Sherlock had wanted to say something other than he had; something entirely different. But he hadn’t been able to read between the lines, not when his mind was screaming at him that this time it would be final. That there wouldn’t be a third chance. 

He had not known what to do with himself when they plane had returned and it had become obvious that Sherlock had taken enough drugs to forget every last bit of their conversation and the reason why he was on that plane in the first place. 

He had taken Mary home, too upset to be able to face Sherlock in his state, and it had taken him weeks to work up the courage to even text him, he was too afraid that he might not receive an answer.

When the answering text came mere seconds after he had sent his own, he went to sit on the floor of the bathroom and cried. It wasn’t his proudest moment, and he had been infinitely embarrassed that Mary noticed that he had cried once he left the bathroom again, but he had been unable to hide his relief. 

The next day, Mary commented on his improved mood and he loved and hated how well she knew him. 

Nevertheless, once they had started working on cases again, they kept a certain, almost professional distance. Occasionally he caught Sherlock looking at him, but then he never knew whether he was looking at or through him, really. Sometimes he just needed a fixed point to concentrate on when he ran different theories by his inner judge. 

It had felt safer not asking, and it had felt safer not looking, even though he had wanted to. 

When the invitation for the annual Christmas party at the Yard came through, Lestrade blackmailed John into taking Sherlock. All three of them knew that chances were high that it would end in embarrassment of some sort for at least two of them, but John had enjoyed the thought of chatting with people he had never met in a relatively safe environment. He hadn’t really been big on going out and meeting new people – not for a while now. 

Sherlock frowned at him, pressing his lips together and cocking his head, a sure sign that he wanted to know what John was thinking, and John felt elated. It had been a lifetime since Sherlock had given him that specific look and before he knew it, he was smiling widely and Sherlock’s frown became something else entirely.

The corners of his mouth quirked and his expression softened considerably. Then his eyes settled on the glass in John’s hand before they returned to his mouth.

John cocked his head in question and Sherlock gave a small jerk with his chin. _Drink up!_ he said without speaking and John wondered whether Sherlock wanted to leave the party. Well, of course he wanted to leave the party, but until now he had not shown any actual indication that he was truly planning on bailing on Lestrade. 

Instead of drinking more, John pushed the glass across the table and raised a challenging eye brow. Sherlock kept his eye contact when he slowly raised the glass to his lips and tipped his head back.

The movement was infinitely erotic and John blinked a few times in order to cope with this thought. It was not something he had ever thought of in connection with Sherlock. And yet, in this moment, it was so obvious to him that he wondered how it could be that it had never occurred to him just how handsome Sherlock was. And suddenly he understood that, subconsciously, he must have thought of Sherlock in sexual terms, only he had never allowed these thoughts to actually become conscious because he knew he would have risked everything if he had. 

His impression only grew stronger when Sherlock, his eyes still fixed on John’s, licked his lips and swallowed, putting the glass down noiselessly. 

John sat a little straighter, knowing that what they were doing was something that would redefine their relationship with no real option of going back. But by god, he did not want to go back. Their friendship hadn’t been one in a while, and if this, whatever it was that fluttered in the air between them, was what he could have instead of the awkwardness and bitterness, then he would grasp it with both hands. 

He indicated the glass with his chin and Sherlock let it slide back over to him. John kept his gaze for a moment before he got up to refill it. 

At the bar he found that Sherlock had followed him, standing a few feet away when he received his newly filled glass. So instead of going back to his seat, he ordered a second one for Sherlock and placed it firmly into his hand, making sure to squeeze it for a moment. 

“Let’s go outside?” Sherlock suggested, but John could hear in his voice that it wasn’t really a suggestion. It was an order.

It was cold outside and while John was happy for the distraction, it was strange how raw he suddenly felt. Nothing was left of the lazy comfort of the warmth he had felt earlier. 

“You seem different today?” Sherlock started when they came to stand on the roof of the building, looking down on Westminster. 

“Do I?” John suddenly wasn’t sure whether it had been a good idea to come out here.

Sherlock looked at him as if he should know what he meant, but John had lost the ability to read Sherlock. It pained him to realise that. 

“You don’t drink regularly,” Sherlock stated, his voice carefully blank as if he was trying to find a way through the conversation without offending John, but knowing that he could only go wrong. That also pained John.

“Not anymore, no.”

“Why today?”

John huffed. “How else would I get through the evening?”

“But you like them!” He sounded surprised. Then he inhaled deeply and exhaled a cloud of frozen breath. “Oh.”

John hugged himself, missing the warmth. The space between them now seemed much wider than it had with the table between them. “I don’t know, Sherlock. I don’t know what to do.”

Sherlock visibly forced himself to look at John, his jaw set.

“I don’t know how to be around you.” There is was, out in the open, with the help of whisky, panic and the cold. 

“John.”

There were a million things he wanted to say. Admissions. Regrets. Blame. Yet he could give voice to none of them. “Can we go home?”

Sherlock looked at him with wide eyes, his breath curling white from his lips. Then he downed his glass, coughing, unused to the burning sensation in his throat. “Home?”

“Home,” John repeated, nodding. Then he copied him and carefully put down the glass on one of the small tables of the roof terrace. 

“Are you alright?” A question John only ever got to hear when he was just out of the reach of mortal danger. It had never been this safe, and this dangerous, to answer that question. 

“No. I’m not alright!” He reached out for Sherlock, and even though he had closed his eyes against any possibility of disappointment, his hands found something solid and warm and he curled his fists against Sherlock’s chest where he had left his coat unbuttoned.

A moment later he found himself pressed against Sherlock, arms wrapped around him tightly, and his nose buried in the collar of Sherlock’s coat. He still had it, despite all of what had happened. It was one of the few reminders he had of a time when things were simpler. When danger meant danger and safety meant safety and Sherlock had been simply a lone genius with a taste for adventure. 

He shook his head, effectively pressing himself harder against Sherlock. “Take me home,” he whispered against Sherlock’s chest, feeling a hand settle against the nape of his neck for a moment before he let go and stepped back. John could see tears gleam in the corners of Sherlock’s eyes.

They took the elevator down without saying good bye and left the building with brisk steps. Sherlock conjured up a cab and John got in without looking at Sherlock. His heart was heavier than it had been all night. Sherlock’s embrace had moved him in a strange way, reminding him of the many times he had wanted to hold Sherlock just to show him that it was okay to fail.

He had never allowed himself to go there and now he wondered whether it had been a mistake. Whether Sherlock would have needed his affection as much as he had needed to give it. 

Regret gnawed on his mind but he could not look at Sherlock, knowing that he would say or do things which he would later regret, too. He hated how difficult it was to be so close to Sherlock and yet to feel so far away from him. 

A warm hand settled on his knee and he looked at Sherlock out of reflex. His eyes were wide and he looked slightly haunted. Panicked even. In pain, too. John hated to see him like this. 

So he did the only thing he could think of that could make the situation bearable. He placed his own hand carefully on Sherlock’s and squeezed, watching as Sherlock’s eyes filled with tears again. 

“I just miss you so much,” he whispered, feeling his own lips tremble. “I miss who you were. Who I was. What we were.”

Sherlock nodded, tears spilling. “I know. I’m sorry.”

It was all they said during the ride home and once they found themselves in the cold on the steps to their door, John stopped Sherlock from unlocking the door just yet. 

“If I go in, I stay,” he said, trying to sound decisive.

To his surprise, Sherlock’s face lit up and he reached out for him, pulling him into a quick, awkward hug. 

“Is that a yes?” he asked when Sherlock moved away and unlocked the door. 

“Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock called out, walking up to her door and knocking loudly. “Mrs Hudson!”

The door opened and immediately her eyes found John’s. He felt himself blush. 

“John is moving back in,” Sherlock announced, looking happier than John had seen him in years. 

“Oh finally, thank god,” was Mrs Hudson’s comment. “About time, don’t you think? I’ll make you some tea.”

“No need,” Sherlock said gently before he turned around and looked at John expectantly. “I’ll do it.”

“Welcome home, John,” she smiled before she closed the door again.

John felt dumbstruck, wondering whether the whisky he had had was affecting him more than expected. For some reason he felt that he couldn’t quite keep up with what was happening. 

“Go on,” Sherlock nodded at him and John slowly climbed up the familiar staircase. He opened the door and hung up his coat and scarf, rubbing his hands for warmth. 

The flat smelled like it always had. He hadn’t noticed it before, but now that he paid attention, he realized that no other place smelled quite like their flat did. His chair was empty except for his favourite cushion. 

“John?” Sherlock closed the door behind him, leaning against it, still in coat and all. “Are you really going to stay?”

“I’ve been meaning to ask for a while now,” John admitted, knowing now that Sherlock had somehow expected him to finally ask. Or hoped for? In any case, the truth needed out. He couldn’t continue to live his life like he had during the last years. He yearned to feel stable ground beneath his feet and now, standing in the middle of the living room, watching Sherlock’s face go slightly pink in the warmth of the room, he felt closer to that than he had in a long time. “If you’ll have me?”

Sherlock huffed, positively jumping into action. He dragged his scarf from his neck and unbuttoned his coat excitedly. Then he dropped both where he stood and stalked into the kitchen. John watched him fill the kettle, whip two cups out of the cupboard and drop a tea bag into each. Then he turned around, his eyes bright with tears, which startled John. He realized Sherlock had needed time to reign in whatever it was he was going through right then.

“I’ll have you,” he finally said, his voice hoarse. “If you’ll have me?”

John shook his head. “Of course. How could you think I wouldn’t?”

“And how could you?” Sherlock burst out, impatient now. John could feel energy emanating from him. Pent up frustration, most likely. It appeared that Sherlock had been just as miserable as he had. 

“I don’t know,” John admitted against the rising noise of the kettle.

With a click the kettle turned itself off, the water continuing to bubble for a moment before it, too, quieted down. 

“You knew I was going to ask. That’s why you came to the party.”

Sherlock sniffed, dipping his chin and looking up at him as if fearing a blow. 

“You knew I would come if you …”

“If I what?” Sherlock’s jaw was set again as if he prepared to defend himself. 

“Touched me,” John said, wondering whether he was entirely wrong about it all and whether Sherlock had really just reacted impulsively. But he knew Sherlock; despite it all he knew him and he knew that he was manipulative even at home, even when he was at his most private. He wasn’t quite able to act impulsively. Except for when he was drunk, a little voice in the back of his head reminded him. Sherlock had been very impulsive during his stag night once he had been drunk. 

Sherlock simply stared at him, his expression blank and no longer defensive. John wondered how much he had had to drink at the party. 

“I did not plan that,” he finally admitted. 

John nodded. “I just realized that, too.”

“So you came home with me because of the hug?”

John huffed. “No. At least not only because of that. Though it was an incentive.”

A blush slowly crept up Sherlock’s cheek bones. “Was it?” he breathed and John bit his lip to hide his amusement. His heart was doing funny things and he knew that he’d stop drinking for a while after this evening. The alcohol had let him step decidedly outside of his comfort zone. 

“The hug and the way you drank the whisky,” he admitted. 

“Oh,” the blush gained in hue and John stepped closer to him. 

“So you _did_ do that on purpose.”

“I was … wondering if it might affect you.”

“Well, it did.”

“You said incentive,” Sherlock seemed somewhat desperate to return to less brittle ground. 

“I am not mistaken in thinking that you might be interested in kissing me at all?” John asked, screaming internally at how unlike himself he behaved right then. However, the panic was muffled by Sherlock’s utterly helpless expression. 

“No,” he simply said and John took another step forward. 

“How long?” he demanded and Sherlock took a step back until he bumped into the kitchen table. 

“A long time,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. 

“Why now?”

“As I said,” he frowned, “not now. Since before Irene.”

John gaped at him. “What?”

“I’m sorry, I did not mean to make you feel uncomfortable or …”

“You’re not,” John interrupted him. “I might have been before. But not now.”

“No?”

He shook his head with a small smile which he hoped was encouraging to Sherlock who looked very flustered by now. “No.” 

“So …”

John took another step forward, finding that the perceived gaping chasm between them had been replaced by an almost magnetic pull. He could fight it if he wanted, but he knew that he would be dragged forward, no matter what. 

“This is not because I am drunk,” John reached out for Sherlock’s face, pushing an errant curl out of his forehead before placing his palm against his cheek. “I am, a little. But I know what I’m doing. Right now.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Sherlock asked breathlessly, pressing his cheek against John’s hand. 

“So you can remind me when I wake up tomorrow and think I’ve destroyed it all.”

“Why would you think that?”

“Because I do, Sherlock. It’s what I do.”

Sherlock shook his head and finally leaned forward, less intimidated now. “You almost did. But not now. Not this time. I won’t allow it!” And he leaned down, taking John’s face between his hands, kissing him carefully on the lips. When he pulled back again, his face was flushed and John, who had taken hold of one of Sherlock’s wrists, could feel his pulse hammering through his body. 

“Did you just …?” John stared at him, feeling his whole body drawn forward, but he knew that if he went where his body wanted to take him now he would regret it after all. “Did you just make sure I could blame you for this?”

“I did trick you into coming home with me,” Sherlock offered. 

John shook his head and laughed, feeling warmth explode in his stomach once more when Sherlock finally smiled again. “You are giving your wooing skills too much credit.”

“I don’t ever woo, John. Never have, never will.”

“Right,” John chuckled and reached out for him. He pulled him down to be able to kiss him properly, and after a surprised gasp, Sherlock relaxed into the kiss and wrapped his arms around him once again. But now there was nothing scary of awkward about that embrace. 

And for the first time that night, no, for the first time in a long, long time, John felt entirely at peace with the world.


End file.
